


No Light

by lavellanpls



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Depression, Gen, Hurt/No Comfort, Mental Illness, Self-Destruction, Vignette, so much sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-10
Updated: 2017-05-04
Packaged: 2018-04-20 01:06:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4767818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavellanpls/pseuds/lavellanpls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the <a href="http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/15060.html?thread=58132948#t58132948">prompt</a>: <i>"The Inquisitor or one of their companions suffers from an intermittent form of chronic depression."</i></p>
<p>Above all else, she is their Inquisitor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> jesus christ I'm sorry ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ

**Cassandra**

Above all else, she is their Inquisitor. She must be—a guiding light in the black of stormy night, a symbol to unite and lead them. The fate of the world balanced on her ability to stand tall. To burn bright without flickering out. And she must know this, because when she takes the throne she is a commanding presence, shoulders thrown back, a voice of reason, of justice. The eyes of an empire turn upon her and under their scorching gaze she is their Inquisitor; their divine Herald; their savior.

She is someone else when she thinks no one sees. Quieter. Cassandra hears her crying at night, and prays. She is unsure what else to do. She has lost faith in many things, at times even in herself, but she will always believe in Lavellan. Will offer up prayers pleading for her soul long after it departs. _Maker, grant her strength. Grant her perseverance. Grant her happiness, please, if only for a moment._

She hopes someone is listening.

 

**Sera**

Sera doesn’t understand. Inky is loud and bright and _alive,_ and then she isn’t any of those things. Suddenly she’s too quiet, and when she does talk her voice is all _wrong,_ and Sera doesn’t even see her for days, and no one will tell her anything and _she doesn’t frigging understand_. Sera yells at her one night—swears and screams and doesn’t even realize she’s crying until halfway through the whole stupid mess. “What, got tired of me, then?” she asks, and it sounds too much like an accusation. “You suddenly forget I frigging _exist_ or something, while you’re off playing zombie?”

“No,” she pleads, and looks so sad Sera wants to scream. “There’s nothing wrong with you. I’m sorry.”

It wasn’t supposed to go like this. Sera doesn’t understand.

 

**Cole**

Cole apologizes. There’s nothing else he can do. He cannot disappear pain, only shake it loose, and there is nothing stuck here. No pearl. There only _is,_ dark and deep and sinking, a chasm carved into her bones, and Cole is helpless. “I’m sorry,” he says, and Lavellan tries to wave it away even while he feels her screaming. “You don’t deserve to hurt.”

She shrugs, still straining to hold up a screen of stability despite what she knows he sees. “That’s the great tragedy of life, though, isn’t it? No one really deserves it.”

“I’m sorry,” he says again, and he has to wince. He wishes he could stop the screaming.

 

**Iron Bull**

Bull knows it as soon as it hits. Can see it even when she smiles, a telltale wrongness, like black smoke rising in the distance. He’s seen it before— _felt_ it before, like a sucker punch to the teeth—and fuck. This is bad. This is really fucking bad. Blackwall’s the only one among them who seems as afraid as he is, and Bull takes no comfort from that, because Lavellan shouldn’t have that in common with them; shouldn’t suffer from haunting nightmares of battles long dead. She goes through the motions, makes all the right gestures, but the movements are hollow. A dead woman walking.

“Hey, Boss. You alright?”

“Fine,” she says, and he frowns at the lie.

“You sure about that?”

She looks up at him, and he sees Seheron in her eyes. “Yeah,” she lies. “I’ll be alright.”

 

**Dorian**

Something is wrong. He knows her too well not to notice by now. The words and posture and swagger are all there but Lavellan simply _isn’t_. Instead he’s left with a vacant reminder where his friend once resided. A ghost.

He tries to ask her what’s wrong, but the answer she gives is troublesome. “Do you ever look into your future and see nothing?” she asks, and yes. Dorian has.

“Can I help?” he offers. “Is there something I can…do?”

“No,” she says, and her smile reads as a banner of defeat. “But you can buy me a drink.”

Yes. He certainly can do that.

 

**Solas**

There is a pattern, of sorts. It takes him far too long to pin it, but he sees it happening again, right before his eyes. A lurking darkness that hides in the hollow spaces between her bones and seeps up through her skin like ink on paper. A malignant sort of melancholy, dormant at times but never truly gone. He looks to her dreams for answers, but cannot find her in the Fade. It’s as if she’s dropped out of reality itself.

She asks for space, for privacy. Waves concerns away with empty excuses of being tired, while he spends nights watching her toss and turn, awake, in bed. She offers promises that she’ll be fine, that whatever demons plaguing her will pass, and if the pattern is correct, then she is right. It will pass. The knowledge, however, does nothing to ease the pain. He can only stand at her side and watch as she grows more haunted.

She does not want to speak of it. Perhaps wants to pretend it does not happen. But he asks her once, in the quiet hours of the morning while she feigns sleep, “Where do you go?”

It takes her too long to answer. “Nowhere,” she finally decides, and he catches a waver in her voice. “It’s like being nowhere at all.”

He asks for no further explanation. Only pulls her close into an embrace she doesn’t quite return. “Come back to me, _vhenan,_ ” he pleads. “Please.”

Her fingers tighten in his shirt. He hears her quietly sob against him, but her face is dry, tears long run out. “I don’t know how,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> but not that sorry ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> back at it again with the sad shit :^)

**Varric**

Yeah. Varric knows.

They talk about it, sometimes. In careful, meandering ways. She never outright says it, of course, but he never expected her to.

Hawke never said it either.

_Do you ever wish you could just…_

_Disappear?_

She still commands, still laughs and jokes and teases, but the sound of it is all off. Her voice is all off. What’s supposed to be this booming, hearty thing turns tinny, forced. She’s like some counterfeit version of herself, some eerie imitation. They talk without saying anything and it feels like watching a play. A memorized script, repeated over and over again.

_Just sort of…stop?_

She makes a sound like laughter and something sinks in his chest. Her laugh doesn’t sound like that. Doesn’t look like that.

It looks like Hawke, and that…

Shit.

He swears he won’t lose this one, too.

 

**Blackwall**

They used to call them dead men walking. Back when he was still a soldier. Back when he was…

He doesn’t want to think about that.

He sees her fall and each time says nothing. Distances, and forgets. Until a familiar coldness settles in his bones, and he feels his heart hammer like axes on a carriage door. He remembers nursery rhymes like epitaphs. Awful, lilting things.

_Mockingbird, mockingbird, quiet and still, what do you see from the top of that hill? Can you see up? Can you see down? Can you see the dead things all about town?_

If he had just said something-

He gives Lavellan a stiff clap on the shoulder, but it doesn’t make him feel better. It doesn’t make anyone feel better. Maker, he’s never been good with this.

His voice comes out gruff, halting. “You’ll be alright,” he says, and it sounds just as weak as it feels.

She nods, says “ _I know,_ ” but it doesn’t make him feel better. It doesn’t make anything better.

_Mockingbird, mockingbird…_

Maker help him. Anyone, whoever was listening, _please_.

He has never felt so small.

 

**Vivienne**

Vivienne says nothing. Will always say nothing. The Inquisitor is more than just a woman now—she is a leader, a _symbol_ , and symbols cannot waver. None of them can afford to waver. They must stand. They must _endure_. And they must smile.

Lavellan says nothing. Of course she says nothing. She understands well the gravity of her influence, the weight of her power, and they both know they cannot afford to fall now. She is the face of the Inquisition. The face of her _People_. There is no option to crumble.

On the intermittent nights when Lavellan falls silent, Vivienne has tea sent up to her chambers. Her favorite blend of cinnamon, with just a touch of honey. Some nights it lies untouched outside her door, long-cold and forgotten.

Vivienne sends for a new set, and says nothing.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( ◉◞ ل͜◟◉ )


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [whatup anon.](http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/16500.html?thread=63566196#t63566196)

**Leliana**

_She’s tired,_ Leliana tells them.

It is not a lie, necessarily. The Inquisitor is tired. War does not sleep, and thus her commitment to fighting cannot, either. There are many nights Lavellan spends locked in the war room, surrounded by maps and reports and stubs of dying candles. There is always work to be done, and it is the Inquisitor’s job to see it through. Of course she is tired.

There are people who ask about her. Servants who wonder why her bedsheets have not been turned down in days; visiting dignitaries who wonder why they have not yet seen the Inquisitor during their stay.

 _She’s tired,_ Leliana tells them.

_She’s busy._

_She’s focused._

_She’s in the middle of something._

Their supply of energizing potions dwindles at an alarming rate, and Leliana has to explain to a wary alchemist that no, this is not strange; yes, she knows; of course, everything is fine.

“You’re not supposed to drink more than two in a day,” he warns. “It’s not good for the heart.”

Leliana gives a curt nod and assures him the potions are needed for her scouts, for the troops, for anyone else.

 _She’s only tired,_ she tells herself.

She hears soft and broken sobbing behind the war room door in the dead of night. Somehow it troubles her less than the nights she hears nothing but a dead, endless silence.

 _She’s tired,_ she lies.

_She’s only tired._

 

**Josephine**

Josephine does not panic.

Lavellan is a seasoned warrior; a force to be reckoned with. It is not uncommon for reavers to turn pain to their advantage in battle. It is a strategy, a well-practiced technique, and the Inquisitor is more skilled than most at it. She has the scars to prove it.

Perhaps…too many scars.

She collects more as time goes on. Adds new bruises and breaks every week to an ever-growing list of injuries. A broken wrist in a climbing mishap; a slashed cheek in a close-quarters melee; a burst blood vessel in her eye from a poorly considered fight without a helmet. She collects pain like gemstones in a crown—red little trophies that fade into scars of thin pink.

Too many scars.

Josephine does not panic.

A reckless battle with Templars on the coast nearly costs her more blood than she can pay. While fretful healers try to reset a crushed collarbone, Josephine cannot help but quietly pull her aside.

“You must be careful,” she says. “Perhaps it will cause no ill effect now, but injuries add up, Inquisitor. Healers can only accomplish so much. Ten years from now you may wish you had taken more care.”

Lavellan laughs, loud and sharp, but the sound makes Josephine tense.

“Ten years from now,” she laughs, and her tone turns it into a joke. It is a cold, awful sound. “Sure, Josie. I’ll worry about it in ten years.”

Josephine tries, unsuccessfully, not to panic.

 

**Cullen**

She drinks.

 _Celebration,_ she says, and yes, Cullen understands that. She’s survived Haven, rescued countless souls, been named leader of a newly-reborn Inquisition—she deserves celebration. She drinks, and so do many others, because they’ve _survived_ and Maker, that is worth celebrating. But as the night wears on and the laughter blurs Cullen realizes he does not see Lavellan amid the festivities. Hasn’t seen her in some time, come to think of it.

He sees her out in the gatehouse when he passes by on his way to bed. Pressed into the far corner nearest the bridge, legs dangling over the side of the wall. She stares at something far away, silent, and takes a slow swig of wine. He notices another bottle waiting ready beside her.

 

She drinks.

 _Rough day,_ she says, and Cullen…supposes he understands that. Her arm is broken, freshly set in a makeshift sling, but she doesn’t seem to be talking about aching bones at the moment. Leliana’s agents have already been dispatched in search of Crestwood’s mayor— _Gregory Dedrick_ —the man who drowned a village. The man whose victims’ bones Lavellan spent hours pulling from the muck. There’s still grime dried to the ends of her coat, but instead of changing clothes Cullen watches her disappear off to the tavern.

He looks for her later, but cannot find her. The barkeep points him toward the second floor. Upstairs, in the far back, he spots her seated alone at a corner table. He counts too many empty bottles.

 

She drinks.

 _It’s fine,_ she says, but Cullen doesn’t feel confident about that.

“A bit early,” he comments, “isn’t it?”

Lavellan pours what’s left of a flask into a half-full cup of tea, and Cullen tries to hide his unease as he watches her give it a quick swirl and toss it back in one go. Josephine keeps rattling on about new reports in the west, pen tracing tracks across the wartable map, but Cullen has a hard time paying attention to whatever news he’s meant to focus on this morning.

Lavellan nods along, her fingertips tapping out an even rhythm against her cup. Her hands, he notices, ever-so-slightly tremble.

“Are you alright, Inquisitor?”

 _Fine,_ she says, but the hollows beneath her eyes are too dark for comfort. He wonders when she last slept.

She swirls the cold remnants of her tea, and Cullen smells whiskey.

 

She drinks.

Corypheus is dead, the sky healed, and for the first time since the heavens were torn asunder Cullen feels they can finally— _joyously_ —rest easy. The world can rest easy. Skyhold’s halls are awash in cheers of celebration, packed full with a crowd of victorious faces and triumphantly raised glasses.

Lavellan retires early. She bids goodnight, and surreptitiously slips a bottle of wine from a nearby table before vanishing, alone, to her chambers.

She doesn’t say anything.

Cullen understands that, too.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> feat. my girl's girl [Thalia](http://saltyoldgrandpa.tumblr.com/tagged/thalia%20lavellan), my fav gay elf

Thalia understands.

She imagines everyone assumes she doesn’t, because there are many things she doesn’t understand. Sticky, grey things, nuanced things, undefined and complicated people-things that don’t quite follow logic. But this is not a sticky, complicated people-thing. This is Lilith.

Thalia understands.

Lilith doesn’t leave the bedroom. She sits in the middle of an unmade bed, hair pulled back in a greasy, unkempt bun, with a haphazard ring of paper strewn around her. She works, and reads, and charts, because that is her job, and on the still, dark days when she loses herself, when she is stripped of the aspects of _friend, companion, lover,_ she is left only as Inquisitor. She is a machine, cold and silent. She is bare bones clinging to a mask of personhood, fingers curling tight into the one thing she can still do. She’s _the Herald, the Inquisitor._ Sometimes she doesn’t have it in her to be anything more. Sometimes machine is the best she can manage.

Thalia understands.

“Is it alright if I play?” she asks, and gestures to her harp.

Lilith nods, but doesn’t engage. Thalia doesn’t expect her to. That isn’t the point.

“I call this one ‘The Bee,’” she says to the air, plucking out a manic-sounding tune. “Because it’s what I imagine a bee would play like.”

Lilith is still scribbling notes, still stripped, still quiet and dark and faraway, but the corner of her lips quirk ever so slightly. “Is it playing with two arms like a person, or is it using all six of its legs?”

“Just the two,” she breezily confirms. “I imagine it’d sound very different if they were playing with all six.”

She receives no response, but that’s okay. She doesn’t do this for a response.

“I’m sorry,” Lilith says, and it doesn’t sound sorry, but Thalia understands that, too. “I’m not…here, right now.”

“That’s okay,” Thalia assures. She’s still concentrating on figuring out the next chord, still composing songs for an audience with no response. “Take your time. I’ll be here when you get back.”


End file.
